The vein ridden sky disallows
the beating heart’s recluse
like a hermit that breaks the
lotus position and dances.
We all find our way
to the open; to the wheat
though frost covered windows
reveal the warped light
of the empty winter trees
that scrape at our technology;
at our dead and fallen inner basics;
framing the moon that baubles
and teases the passing clouds.
The death of bare faced simplicity
barely moves in the wind and it is
as though the trees are, for the first
time telling secrets to each other.
Their bark is like frozen water
that absorbs the moonlight
like an old and empty building.
The trees are like rows of an
assembly line that cannot
even hide their mistake
of reaching to be a silhouette
for a night sky.
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